I turned 50 in 2007, so I'm practicing curmudgeon-like behavior by stressing, "whatever it is, I'm agin' it!" Call me anarcho-syndicalist or progressive, except I think most anarchists and progressives are as annoying as neocons. I like to point folks to way-outside-the-mainstream literature and music, while grumbling about everything else.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Sister Barbara poured two perfect-head MGDsJust as the sun’s neutrino vomit hit the upper atmosphereShe wondered out loud about reeling in the contemplative sisterswho dismiss the warmth of the barroom.What fishing lure can return them to the necessary breath?

I reminded her that every Stylite needed to eat and shitEven if it took a diocese force-feeder ascending that column.The breath is here, the choice has been made.But then again, Catholics always proved better at works.A new crowbar might be required to pull a Calvinist asceticfrom the bubblegum stuckness of prevenient grace.

Not stuckness, Barbara smiled, stuck-in-againstness.

We could feel the corona spillover while we watched the condensation ringswarn us that the necessary breath is a closed circle.Accept the gift, accept the terror of each anonymous deathwithout once averting your eyes.

What if the astronomers were wrong,I thought as I got up to leave.Maybe that walk to the car, a seach for auroral lightswould leave my bones pliant.She wondered if a squid was any easier to reel in,and reminded me of dozens of assassins, closer than the sun,that might lurk in those last two hundred steps.And besides, she said, you must finish your beer.

Monday, August 2, 2010

monsoon timpani thunder cracksdreams to Dolby 5.1 surroundas I sing of weevily wheat and cake for Charlielightning splits Ponderosa pine,a revelation that Agnes of God was covering the Merry Mailmanall alongmaking manifest your tears during intermissionthat left the leaven far from neat and far from sweet and far from dandyMerry Mailman sang of heirlooms basil fingerlingsBig Rock Candy I am sure of these hymnsbut only the next track played for the hailstorm shuffle“I don’t want to play in your yard.I don’t like you any more.”

Loring WirbelAug. 2, 2010

Chemtrails

I. “My mother is toxic.”Her hiss unwraps to a scream to be heard over warm bath of scramjetas the waking me insists F-15s are not cropdusters.

Our Amelia makes no such distinctionsBut an Adderall, any SSRIis the minimum needed for biplane stuntsWith second-seat status I sit back for the show.

First Mach 5 swoosh over fallow heartcounts back one –the May morning a stealth bomber stammered my atticcounts back two –a day before drones silenced aerial bombing forever and alwayscounts back three –the fine dust of pleas, doing the best that she can, and her brother despised her, and it’s onlyone payday and it isn’t dependence

Navigator claims no ancestral, antecedent poisonsonly the pilot, only the pilot

The fence line approaches, pull throttle phallic and

Oh the genetically-modified hearts still in want of this dust.

II. In Mach 1 days Schwinn brigadesraced the town pesticide tankerPride in the Jack of Spades clothespin spoke andPride in the white sticky showerUnaware then, molecules clung like a lonely biphenylGot milk, got dread and longing but we live Mach 5 nowScramjets blast dust, sandblast tears, pulverize tangential bloodclotsto a featureless surface from a year with no corn.

Where boom resonates was two betrayals agoShe has breached the horizon for a soybean approachcounts back one –foreclosures layoffs leave vapor-trail scarringcounts back two –the broken doll for Green Giant desirecounts back three –when dust cements thumb and index togetherthere are no pilot prayers to eat locallyonly a pilot chant you never called you never called

Until the cropduster defining the maps of your own restraining orderhas broken the sound barrierleaving every combine sticky to the Iowa borderfinding grain silo, missile silo jointly unsoundonly then will her chemtrailsdisclose the latent pull of whatall the local wheat farmers call collateral damage.